Normality
by imperial queen
Summary: Albus Dumbledore left a baby on a doorstep in the middle of the night, and a perfectly normal family lost the thing they valued most.


**This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction, and my first multi-chaptered fanfic. I would appreciate constructive criticism in reviews. **

**I do not own Harry Potter. **

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**Chapter One: Surprises**

DING-DONG!

Vernon Dursley was woken from a restless and uneasy sleep. He looked at the clock…it was half-past six in the morning. He sighed, too tired to get up and hoped that the doorbell was a figment of his almost non-existent imagination. He would have had trouble imagining the bombshell that had been dropped on him and his family the previous night as they all slept, but as the epitome of normality; none of the Dursleys would have imagined the abnormality they were about to experience.

DING-DONG!

Vernon sat up and grimaced. Who would ring the doorbell at this time of day? Only the milkman…oh…there must be a problem with the milk. Why couldn't he post a note through the letterbox, like a normal person?

DING-DONG!

"Alright, I'm coming!" Vernon called. He climbed out of bed, disturbing his wife, Petunia.

"What is it?" she asked sleepily.

"Some fool ringing the doorbell. Go back to sleep, it's still early," Vernon replied. He heard the mumbled reply as he left the room. He shut the door quietly and clambered down the stairs and fumbled with unlocking the door.

He opened the door just as the milkman rang the doorbell again. "What the bloody hell do you want?" he snapped, tired and fed up with the noise of the doorbell. The milkman looked at the corpulent man in front of him. The man blinked and stared at his client. He was comparable to an elephant seal in size and had a [walrus] moustache that seemed almost alive. It quivered as Vernon tried to curb his temper. "Well? What do you want?" he asked the unfortunate milkman, "Is there an issue with the milk?"

"No…I was just dropping off the milk, like usual, sir, and well…I found…well…umm…" the man trailed off, too terrified to speak and just gestured to the ground. Vernon raised an eyebrow in scepticism. The milkman looked at him, eyes wide. "It's not a joke, honest, sir…it's just…well…" the young milkman tried again; again he trailed off, at a loss for words.

"If this is a joke or a bet, I'm calling the police!" Vernon hissed, spittle spraying onto the poor milkman. The man began to look terrified, shoved the milk bottles he was holding at the larger man and said "There'sababyonyourdoorstep!" in a rush before rushing off to his milk float. He drove off as fast as he could; leaving behind the angry walrus that lived at number four Privet Drive.

Vernon stared after the milkman. He thought about what the man had said and then about the gesture. He looked down. Looked up. Looked down again. There was a baby on his doorstep. He did the only thing a person can do in a situation like that could do. He swore. He dropped the milk bottles he was holding…and swore again, this time for a different reason.

The baby woke up and looked at him. It started to cry. His day was just getting better and better. He gathered the crying infant up in his arms and headed inside, grumbling loudly. He made a mental note to deal with the smashed bottles later. There were more pressing matters at that moment in time.

As he entered the house and left the crying child in the living room, he noticed a letter clutched in its small hands and a lightning shaped scar on his forehead. He prised the letter from the infant's clutched fist and looked at the address.

_Mr and Mrs V Dursley_

_4 Privet Drive _

_Little Whinging _

_Surrey_

_England_

Whoever it was knew where they lived. That was not good. He didn't know of anyone who would…then he remembered the events of the previous day; the people in strange clothes, the mutters, and he began to suspect something…something he prayed and hoped that he was wrong about. He knew in his heart that his suspicion was right though.

He opened the letter, scanned the contents and then started to read it properly.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, _the letter began. The cursive, narrow script reminded him far too much of the hand that had written a letter from a certain person that his wife had shown him to prove that her sister was…different. He read further. Stopped. Read it again. He sat down next to the baby…that had fallen silent. How ominous. He finished reading the letter. He left the room and went into the kitchen. No child, however abnormal, needed to hear what he was thinking. What he needed to say. Then he began the longest string of curses that had left his mouth in a long time; after all it isn't every day that an infant is dropped onto your doorstep. When he'd recovered enough, he left to wake his wife up.

"Petunia," he whispered, shaking her gently. She stirred and looked at him.

"Vernon? What time is it?" she asked, still drowsy.

"It's not seven yet. However, we have a problem," he whispered. She looked at him. "It's your sister," he added. She sat up, got out of bed and left the room. He followed her to the living room. That was the end of normality for the Dursley family.

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